


Riding Boots

by DachOsmin



Category: The Goblin Emperor - Katherine Addison
Genre: Boot Worship, Dom/sub, M/M, Military Ranks, Pronoun kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-11
Updated: 2017-04-11
Packaged: 2018-10-17 13:17:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,497
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10594803
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DachOsmin/pseuds/DachOsmin
Summary: Deret instructs Cala on the proper care and conditioning of Barizheise leather.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ExtraPenguin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ExtraPenguin/gifts).



Deret seems tense. He has for some time, at least as far back as the Winternight ball. Perhaps even before that. He hides it, or tries to, but Cala well knows how to take the measure of a man, and Deret is nowhere near as opaque as he seems to think he is.

If it were anyone else Cala would brew a pot of jasmine tea and ask him straightforwardly what was wrong. But something tells him such methods are uncommon amongst the Untheileneise Guard and besides, he doubts Deret would know the answer himself.

And so he bides his time, watching with increasing concern as Deret grows more and more irritable as the days pass. 

Cala gets his chance to intervene during a cold snap on the edge of spring. Waking with the dawn, he peers outside to see that the cherry blossom buds by his window have frozen into glass ornaments in the sunshine. They serve as a lovely meditation on the fleeting nature of beauty, and were he still a simple scholar he would be tempted to compose a small poem on the subject in his notebook. 

But such pursuits are behind him; he has a duty greater than himself now. And so, with a last look at the blossoms he dons his winter robes and goes to take his place at Edrehasivar’s side.

Deret falls in step with him in the corridor outside their rooms; from the sheen of sweat on his forehead Cala guesses he has been making use of the Untheileneise Guard’s gymnasium before their shift begins. The sun has only just risen, and he wonders if Deret slept at all this past night. But he bites his tongue, as he has at every turn since he first noticed Deret’s behavior. He is not a mother nor a father to chide and pester; if something is truly wrong he hopes that the amity between them is such that Deret will reach out on his own. Not that it’s happened yet. But perhaps soon. And so he nods, and ducks his head in greeting. “Good morning, Lieutenant Beshelar.” 

“And to you,” Deret says. He looks Cala up and down and tightens his jaw, though he says nothing.

Cala offers a genuine smile in return; he admits to finding judgement of his sartorial choices more than a bit amusing. He is known to blithely ignore current fashion in favor of comfort, secure in the knowledge that no one will ever say anything when Edrehasivar so clearly does not notice or care- and besides, it does a maza good to cultivate some air of eccentricity in his looks or habits. 

On the other hand, today is certainly not one of his worst days, and he finds himself curious what Deret will pick to criticize. His calves are modestly covered by woolen leggings, and today’s robe- a gift from Maia- is indigo silk, well-quilted in a heron pattern with nary a thread out of place. 

Deret seems to realize he’s staring; he ducks his eyes lower and then pulls them away. “You take abysmal care of your boots,” he mutters.

Cala glances down at his boots. The leather is coated with a light patina of dirt, but he sees little else wrong with them. In truth, he much prefers his woolen slippers no matter how ill-received they are by the court. He has a pair felted with miniature suncats and another with a tulip pattern. They are delightfully fuzzy on the inside. But today the courtyards and breezeways of the palace are dusted with snow, and that means boots.

“We were not aware our boots required care, good or ill,” he says mildly.

Deret draws back, aghast. One might assume he’d insulted the man’s mother, or else kicked his cat. “Of course they… you mean you do not clean or polish them?”

“They are boots, Deret. Not the imperial china set.”

Deret purses his lips, and Cala knows it is only his rigid loyalty to the Emperor and his abhorrence of lateness that keeps him from duking out the point here and now. “When our shift finishes,” he says as they hurry to the Tortoise Room together, “we shall educate you.”

***

Another man might have forgotten, but Deret is like a dog with a bone with many things, and it seems this is one of them. As soon as their shift is over and Cala has closed the door of their quarters behind them, Deret is rummaging around in his trunk muttering under his breath about the travesty that is Cala’s treatment of his footwear.

He emerges a moment later with a rag and a decanter of olive oil dangling from his hand. He eyes Cala once more with a critical mien. “We shall proceed, then.”

“If it means so much to you,” Cala says, reaching to his heel to pull the boot off with a shrug.

But Deret is shaking his head. “Nay, leave them on. Tis best to work them while still on the wearer. They hold their shape better that way.”

This sounds correct on the surface, for all he doesn’t know enough to judge. He has seen the shiners at work on the streets of Cetho, scrawny young things with hands stained by bootblack. Their clients do keep their boots on. But while Cala knows little of boots, he knows much of people, and the way Deret’s eyes slide away from his like oil on water gives him pause. 

“Very well,” he says after a moment, sitting down on the edge of his bed with good grace. He trusts Deret, at the end of the day. And that is that.

Deret kneels in silence, and stares fixedly at the ground as he wraps the cloth around his fingers and takes Cala’s heel in his other hand, eyes flicking up to meet Cala’s before he begins.

The first touch of the cloth is tentative; Cala can barely feel the swipe of the cloth over the toe of the boot. Deret pauses for a moment, and there it is again- that tightness in the muscle of his jaw. 

“Go on,” Cala murmurs, nodding at the boot.

The second touch is more sure. Deret rubs the cloth over the heel and calf of the boot, wiping away the crusted dirt and mud with brisk motions. “One should do thusly after every wear,” Deret says with a hint of reproach. He scrapes at a chunk of mud that’s been caked under the arch of Cala’s left foot for at least a month. “One should apply oil only to clean leather. Just as one only paints a clean face.”

Cala nods gamely at this, feeling no shame at immediately disregarding the advice. If Deret wishes for his boots to be cleaned regularly, Deret may do it himself. And indeed, watching Deret work is certainly no hardship. Deret kneels like a man well accustomed to it, and one could mistake his lowered gaze for deference rather than concentration, if one wished to.

A different man might well feel guilty for enjoying the view, though Cala has learned that there is little point in policing the idle thoughts and unacted-on desires that flit through his head. He leans back and lets himself enjoy Deret’s ministrations, each press of his fingers a caress.

Deret pauses to pour oil onto the rag, and then begins to work it into the boots. The leather, long neglected, comes alive under his hands. The color shifts from a dull umber to a rich mahogany, reflecting the lights of the lanterns in scattered prisms across the floor. The joints of the boots lose their creaking stiffness, softening until the leather moves like a second skin with each shift of Cala’s legs. He can feel every touch of Deret’s hands through the leather, from his firm grip on the heel to the ghosting of fingers over the toe.

And as the leather comes back to life, Cala can also see the tension leave the knots in Deret’s back. He relaxes into the task at hand: his motions lose their jerkiness and he settles into an easy cadence. The silence is companionable now, and Cala, tired from the hustle and bustle of court, would normally enjoy it. 

But he finds he wishes to hear Deret’s voice, lovely as it is. “Explain to us what it is you do,” he says, “that we may replicate it on our own.” 

Deret hums in acknowledgement, though he does not look up from his work. “One should focus one’s attentions on the seams of the leather: its weakest points. Here,” he murmurs, stroking a finger along the edge of the sole. “And here.” He sweeps his finger up the inseam of Cala’s calf, letting it rest against the inside of his knee. The oil is slick against his fingers. Cala finds himself mesmerized by the way it glitters in the light.

Deret next traces the seam of the boot’s cuff, rubbing the oil into the crease with his fingers. Cala closes his eyes, caught up in the sensation of it. The leather is thinnest there; Deret’s hand is so close to his skin, could so easily move further up his leg… “We see,” he says, and he cannot help the way the words catch in his throat.

“Indeed,” Deret says, stroking over the seam a second time, as if loath to pull away. And there- is that a touch of hoarseness in his voice? “One should next rub the oil into the crevices at the heel and sides, that it might penetrate into the sole.” 

Cala lets out a faint noise at that, one he hopes might pass as simple agreement. He can feel his body responding; his skin feels too tight, and heat is pooling in his stomach. If it were anyone other than Deret, he would suspect these damnable words were being chosen with an ulterior motive at mind. But it is Deret. And Lieutenant Deret Beshelar is not the sort of man to seduce his colleagues while polishing their boots. Is he?

The tension builds in increments. Not the angry tension that had knotted Deret’s back and tightened his jaw earlier, but something else. He can feel it, knows Deret can feel it to from the way he steals glances when he thinks Cala isn’t looking. Deret’s narration stops, and silence begins to stretch in its place.

And Cala is no expert, but he can tell that Deret is simply repeating the same strokes over and over again, as if loath to pull away. Now comes the part where Cala should stand and thank Deret for his work, offer a hand to pull him upright. And they may walk out of this room on equal footing, and speak no more of these fleeting touches and lingering gazes. Discretion is the better part of valor.

And yet. Cala glances to the grilles on the window. The sky is still blue with daylight; they are not meant to take over for their seconds until well into the night. He looks back at Deret. Well. Discretion is the better part of valor, but Cala is no soldier to care much for valor either way. There are sweeter prizes to be had in life.

He inhales. Holds it. Exhales slowly. “Deret,” he says quietly.

Deret looks up with a question on his lips, and Cala knows this time he is not imagining the dull flush on the other man’s cheeks.

Cala pulls his right foot out of Deret’s hands and raises it slowly, so as not to break the hush of the moment. He realizes he is biting his lip: perhaps he has miscalculated, perhaps all these little clues are just figments of his imagination. But Deret stays frozen like a hart in the path of a hunter. And so Cala lifts his foot higher, higher. And still Deret says nothing.

He settles the heel of his boot on Deret’s shoulder, just below the join of his neck. He swallows, meets Deret’s eyes, and presses his heel down with a gentle weight. A low shudder wracks through Deret’s body and he bends into it, bowing down to press his forehead to the floor. And in that moment, Cala knows he has understood Deret perfectly.

“Have you done this before?” he murmurs, curious. The mazas play at similar games in the universities; he has fond memories of late nights in the libraries with rulers and bookbinding twine. But soldiers have always been a more conservative sort, and perhaps encounters are limited to whatever furtive fumblings their barracks allow.

It seems this was the wrong thing to ask: there’s a self-conscious guilt rising up in Deret’s eyes, and that, Cala cannot allow. He presses down with his heel again, just lightly enough to ground Deret in the now. “We asked a question.”

“Y-yes,” Deret chokes, cheek flush with the cuff of Cala’s boot.

“How long has it been?” he asks, although he thinks he already could guess at the answer. For such intimacies are frowned on for nohecharei, and he cannot imagine that Deret would allow himself such a transgression. 

“Since… before we were called into service with you.”

A picture is forming in his head, and not one he particularly likes. The tension. The irritability. 

Cala mulls over his next words, picking the phrasing very carefully. “And when would you have asked for this, had you been able?”

A dry laugh, at that. “After Winternight, to start with.”

Cala closes his eyes and remembers: the copper of blood and the ozone of magic mixing in the air like some unholy perfume. The shudder of the death maz in the bones of his fingers, the dull weight of Eshevis Tethimar collapsing before him. And Deret, bleeding in the Emperor’s lap. 

What happens when a man holds himself to the highest of standards and then fails to meet them? What happens when there is no resolution, no end to his guilt and shame? He thinks of the long weeks and months Deret has spent carrying this burden alone and wants to weep. “We would help you then, as best as we can. We know men desire different things from such play. It need not be… base. If you would prefer we can simply sit-“

“No,” Deret cuts him off, voice hoarse, “we would have- we would have whatever it is you would give us. We would have it all.”

Cala slips a finger under Deret’s chin and lifts it, that he may look into Deret’s eyes. He knows Deret’s propriety clouds his language, but in this, clarity is vital. “When you say that,” he says carefully, “do you mean-“

“We wish you to bend us to your will,” Deret cuts in, “we wish to be used by you, utterly debauched by you- we wish you to take us apart and remake us in your hands.”

His face is flaming red but his gaze never wavers, and it is all Cala can do to nod dumbly in return. His desire, so far the steady heat of banked embers, flames up. He’s dizzy with want, with need, and his fingers itch to tangle in Deret’s hair and pull their mouths together right then and there, and kiss every worry away. He wants to suckle at the tips of Deret’s ears, drag moans from him like music. He wants it all. 

But this is not about what he wants. It’s about what Deret needs. 

He calls on every inch of discipline he has and tamps down his lust enough that he can speak in a normal tone. “We understand, soldier.”

Deret’s eyes go dark with lust, and Cala smiles to himself.

“Stand, soldier.”

In this he is on firmer ground than with the boots; though he is no soldier himself, he has several blue-backed novels stowed in his trunk that detail such scenarios. He suspects most are written by merchant’s daughters with classical educations and too much time on their hands rather than actual soldiers, but the principles are likely sound. 

At any rate, the way Deret’s cheeks and ear tips are flushed a hazy red suggests no complaint. He fumbles to his feet on unsteady legs, giving Cala a lovely view of the bulge pressed obscenely against the cloth of his breeches.

Cala imagines nosing at it, taking in the scent, licking Deret to distraction through the fabric. Could he make Deret spend from that alone? Perhaps he shall try some other time. 

“Strip, soldier,” he says, and leans back on the bed to watch the show.

Deret is no coquette in his disrobing: his motions are quick yet careful, with no attempts at teasing or play. And yet the act enflames Cala to an unexpected degree, from the way Deret stretches his arms as he pulls them from his jacket to the way he stares fixedly at the ground, modesty reddening his cheeks and ear tips. He takes the time to fold his breeches and Cala almost dies from the delay. At last, after a tortuous wait, he is pulling away the laces of his smallclothes and letting them drop at his feet. His cock is already half-hard; it twitches as Cala licks his lips in anticipation. By the gods, does he want to swallow that cock down to the hilt. Deret seems like the silent type, but they would hear him on the other side of Cetho if Cala were to give in to the temptation.

Deret coughs, and Cala realizes he’s been staring in silence like a moon-witted cow. 

“That will do, soldier.” He supposes the sooner he gets his own clothes off, the sooner he will get to sample the delights of Deret’s marvelous body. He leans forward and reaches for the heel of his boot-

Deret takes a half step forward. “No…“

Cala raises an eyebrow. “Did we give you leave to speak?”

Deret’s ears flatten. “No, sir”

Sir. Yes, his cock likes that very much indeed. Cala takes a breath to steady himself and considers Deret, sees the way his eyes cling to his boots despite the reprimand. “You may address us.”

“We would- we would have you clothed, sir.”

Well. Deret apparently wants him to come right then and there. He indulges in the image for a second: Deret naked beneath him, trembling as Cala fucks him in full court attire. But no need to indulge in fantasy. He will have the real thing. 

He stands from the bed and goes to Deret, taking Deret’s hands in his own ever so gently. Deret lets Cala lead him to the bed, does not protest as Cala pushes him down to it. 

Deret’s eyes track him as he leans down to the floor and picks up the forgotten olive oil. He watches Deret’s lips part as he thumbs the bottle open. Cala moves to pour the oil into his palm, but pauses at the last minute. He has a better idea. 

Holding Deret’s gaze, he sets the bottle down on the bed by Deret’s side. “Open yourself for us, soldier.”

If asked, Cala would have guessed Deret to be straightforward in bed, not given to playfulness or dalliance. He is quite happy to be proven wrong in this. Deret applies himself to the task with his general diligence, but there is a sensuality to his attentions that is delightfully unexpected. He teases at himself, tracing his hole with oil, playing at the rim. He slips his finger inside with a small gasp, and Cala is overcome with the thought of how his body will feel sheathed around Cala’s cock.

Cala clears his throat; even to his ears he sounds wrecked. “You- you may add a second finger, soldier.”

Deret does, and eagerly so. arches off the bed, head thrown back in the pillows as his fingers do their work. He adds a third finger soon after, and Cala has not the strength to punish him for it. Before long he is fucking himself on his fingers in earnest, eyes wrenched shut and mouth open, chest sheened with sweat. 

Cala’s self control, already strained, crumbles into pieces at the sight. He finally undoes the buttons on his robe and the laces of his leggings, pushing the fabric down just far enough that he can take his cockstand in hand. He is already well erect; Deret’s sweet obedience and his body spread before Cala like a feast are a heady combination. 

He clears his throat with a great deal more calmness than he feels. “Hands on the headboard, soldier.”

Deret pulls his fingers out with a slick pop and a sigh at their absence. He scoots backwards on the bed, twisting his hands around the iron bars of the headboard.  His legs are spread obscenely, his cock jutting up against his stomach between them. 

Cala sees white for a second, and knows in his heart of hearts this is an image he’s going to treasure for the rest of his life. “Canst thou hold this position, or wouldst have us tie thee?”

Deret looks vaguely insulted at the suggestion, and Cala has to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from smiling. He is so very  _ himself _ , even in this. “We can hold it, sir."

“Then we shall not ask again,” he says, and climbs onto the bed.

Deret watches Cala through the white veil of his lashes as Cala kneels between his legs. The burnished leather of the boots a delicious contrast against the pale skin of Deret’s calves. Cala finally lets himself indulge in touch: he trails his fingertips over the goosebumps of Deret’s inner thighs, kneads at the flesh of his buttocks, rubs a blunt thumb over the lip of his hole. Deret lets out a series of shuddered breaths but does not speak. No matter, Cala can tell he enjoys every moment: his cock jumps and twitches with every bit of attention Cala sees fit to give him.

“Wouldst beg, soldier?” he asks as Deret bites back a particularly pained gasp.

“If our commander wishes us to. Sir.”

Cala bites back a laugh at the steel in his voice. He wonders how long it would take to reduce Deret to tears, and how much longer ‘til Deret begged him for release. A while, he imagines: Deret is proud beyond sense sometimes, and his will would break long after his body. Cala will have put the matter to a test some time; a match of wills between a dachenmaza and a master swordsman would be interesting no matter who won.

But he has no patience for such games now, not when Deret is biting back breathy moans, his cock leaking obscenely against the planes of his stomach. 

He presses a finger inside of Deret’s hole, playing at the rim from the inside. So tight, so hot- perfect. He needs to be inside him; he needs it now.

He drizzles oil on his hand and slides it over his cock. Hooking his hands under Deret’s knees, he scoots forward and lines himself up with Deret’s entrance.

“Ready, soldier?”

Deret offers him a ghost of a smile. “Yes sir.”

Cala doesn’t ask again. He’s pressing forward into that blissful heat, sinking in inch by inexorable inch, further and deeper than he thinks he can go.  _ Sweet Csaivo,  _ he thinks _ , what have I done to deserve this?  _

Deret takes every inch he gives. His eyes flutter closed and his head falls back onto the pillow, but even as Cala opens his mouth to ask if it’s too much, Deret is pushing back against his cock like he can’t get enough of it. Like he wants to be filled with everything Cala can give him. 

Cala’s hips come flush with Deret’s sweat sheened skin. It’s what Cala imagines heaven might feel like. He lets himself rest, panting as he stares at the join of their bodies, feels the tremble of Deret’s body around him. “Art well?” he manages to gasp.

Deret blinks up at him. His mouth hangs open, his chest rising and falling. He looks utterly wrecked, like some dockside whore on his fifth patron of the night. “We- we are, sir. We are yours to command. Yours to do with as you will.”

Oh, but Deret could undo him with words alone. Cala swallows roughly and readjusts his grip on Deret’s thighs. “Indeed thou art,” he says. He draws back, almost completely free of Deret’s body before thrusting in again. “Wert made for this,” he says as he slams his cock forward, backwards, forward again. “Wert made to be a sheath for the cocks of thy betters.”

Deret does not reply; words seem utterly beyond him. He bucks up to meet each thrust; the sinews of his thighs taut and trembling. His fingers are twisted, white knuckled, around the railing of the headboard.

Gods and Goddesses, but he is lovely like this. 

There is no contest in this, none Cala can win. No man could withstand this barrage of pleasure for long. Cala thrusts in to the hilt once more, hands digging bruises into Deret’s thighs as his head falls forward and he’s falling apart, his orgasm wrenched from him in wave after wave.

He finds it in himself to speak through the pleasure, broken though his voice may be. “Spend for us, soldier. That’s an order.”

That is all it takes. Deret comes with a cry, his back arching up off the bed as he jacks into Cala’s hand. He falls back a moment later, eyes soft and body languid, as if Cala has drawn every bit of stress and worry from him like poison from a wound. 

Cala lies still for a moment, panting as he comes back to himself. When he does, Deret is watching him with an unreadable expression on his face. 

What to say, in moments like these? He does not wish to stand and walk away to his own bed, as if nothing had happened between them. But he can see Deret doing such a thing: parting ways and speaking no more of this. They would separate and clean the evidence of their tryst in secret, and when they next saw each other, it would be all propriety and formality and potent silence. And if Deret wishes it so, he realizes, he will do it. There are worse burdens to bear for those he loves. He shifts, moving to push himself up from the bed.

And then Deret is reaching out, folding a hand around his wrist. “Stay?” His eyelids are drooping and he looks as if he is halfway into sleep, but he says the word like it’s important. Like it means something.

Cala is blindsided by the affection that hits him like a rogue wave. “If you wish it,” he says, easing back onto the bed, shifting so their bodies are cradled side by side.

Deret smiles against his skin. “I wish it.”

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[ART] High Shine](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11134875) by [DachOsmin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DachOsmin/pseuds/DachOsmin)




End file.
